


the third kiss

by beespiesandplaid



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7790821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beespiesandplaid/pseuds/beespiesandplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam is wondering where his and Ronan's relationship is going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the third kiss

**Author's Note:**

> written for a pynch war i am having with dasstark on tumblr. Vaguely inspired by pynchweek 's day four prompts.

The third kiss. He’s never made it beyond the first before. But today, Ronan is meeting him after work, and today, Ronan is going to kiss him. Simple sentences, really, to describe a simple concept – lips on lips – yet somehow wholly inadequate.

You don’t just kiss Ronan Lynch. You drown in him, the burning oil spill of his lips and hands trailing fire up your spine – can you call it a kiss if your whole body feels touched before you even meet? Can one simple syllable do that justice?

It’s the third kiss. It’s the third time he’s combusted and been remade.

And it is Ronan, and Ronan doesn’t use words, and as Adam bends over a car with a shredded fan belt he thinks of those lips, and he knows how they make him feel, and he wonders how he makes Ronan feel, if Ronan is walking round with his hand pressed to his chest because his heart is swelling bigger than his rib cage. Should first love feel so much like a heart attack?

Hell is not a torture chamber, but endless anticipation. Adam has been through every possible scenario, every variation of the “what is this burning thing between us?” conversation and it is barely lunch time. He listens to the playlist Ronan made him (the second one, delivered three weeks after the first, containing an eclectic mix of auditory horrors and delights.)

Song lyrics hit too close to home and every description of a boy makes him think of Ronan. How did he not notice this? How did he not think of the possibility of it – actually think of it, not subconsciously desire it – until this week? These emotions in him feel timeless, as if they have always been there, yet they are so new (does this mean they can grow bigger? he will burst if they grow). How can something so timeless manifest in just a few days? Perhaps it was dormant, he thinks, ignoring science and hypothesising a code in his DNA, a code that reads Ronan, sleeping like beauty, woken with a kiss.

Time slides, and Ronan is due, and Adam wipes his forehead on an old rag, sharp engine oil reminding him of a late night drive, burnt rubber and glances that lasted too long. He pretends the sweat is from the heat, and not the rapid pound of heart and mind.

“Parrish?” Ronan calls.

“Ah. In here,” Adam says, speaking around the mass of emotion in his throat. Why is he nervous? It’s Ronan – safety amongst the turbulence. Why is he nervous? It’s Ronan, the snake in the grass. Why is he nervous? He’s in love.

“You all right, Parrish? Shit – you look like shit.”

“Er. Thanks.”

“Well, I mean, you look good but… you OK?”

“Fine. Long day, you know?”

Ronan walks closer, jeans slung low, tattoo winding (how does it look like it moves? who is this dream boy? Did Adam dream a dreamer? conjure him from a wishbone and hope?) (no, his arms are around him, real, the tang of sweat-salted skin and cut grass – Adam’s dreams smell of decay, not life.)

“I – don’t kiss me,” Adam blurts, kicking himself before the words are done. Ronan drops his arms, steps back, stung like a wasp.

“I’ll go then, shall I?” he says, cold, and Adam is the wasp and he is the snake and how did he dream of something soft here? They are all hard edges – two jawlines so sharp cannot fit together, surely?

“I – no… Ronan…”

“I’d have preferred rejection after the first kiss, Parrish. I don’t do hook-ups.” His chin is up, defiant, but his eyes show his heart. Ronan isn’t a liar – he’s a terrible portrait of truth (the truth is you sting, Adam, everything you touch turns toxic, and you don’t even have the grace to die afterwards.) He grasps for words, but neither of them have ever had many to spare – theirs is a love built on laughter and stolen stares, and neither will fix this rift, five feet and an infinity between them.

“I don’t want to reject you,” Adam whispers, clutching the rag in his hands. “I wanted… to talk. About this. Us. You. And me. Fuck.”

“What is there to talk about?” Hands in pockets, heart shielded in his hands. Adam wants to take the heart, still beating, lock it within his own rib cage and defend it until his last breath. But he cannot say that.

“What is this?”

“Two boys in a garage.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious, Adam,” Ronan says, like the words choke him. “Serious as a heart attack.”

“Then what is this?”

Ronan closes his eyes, offers out his hand (his heart, beating, exposed.) “A chance. At something neither of us thought we could have.”

“Is it safe?”

“Safe as life.”

“Fuck,” Adam says, taking Ronan’s hand, curling his fingers into the soft pad of his palm. “It will hurt.”

“It will hurt more not to,” Ronan says, fingers tracing patterns up his arms, jumping between freckles, reaching his jaw, hesitant. “Can I kiss you?”

“Can I kiss _you_?” Adam asks in response. His own hands have found the soft skin at the back of Ronan’s neck, the silk of his earlobe, the full curve of his bottom lip. Ronan exhales, warm breath kissing his hand. Does that count as the third one? Is a kiss only meeting, or is the touching of feelings also? He feels kissed.

“Yes,” Ronan whispers, and it is so odd to see him whisper, simple quiet words escaping from normally loud lips; Adam is learning him again, loving him more with each soft revelation. He brushes his lips to Ronan’s, and the scoreboard is even now – Ronan had the first kiss, desire had the second, and Adam had the third.

Ronan is so still beneath his hands, eyes closed, fingers curled at his sides. Adam touches his face, brushes fingertips to eyelids, nose to jaw, lips to collarbone. It is silent, the playlist long since ended, the light has faded from sun to dusky blue.

What is this? he thinks, wondering, as his body presses to Ronan’s. Two boys in a garage. What is this? he thinks, lost, as Ronan’s pulls him in closer. This is everything. What is this? a universe distilled into a kiss.


End file.
